


A Little Less Conversation

by kototyph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Howdy Neighbor, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Omega Castiel, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trope-Typical Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-22 16:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11384472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: “Hello,” the man in 606B says. Instead of a boxy suit, he’s in low-slung sweatpants and nothing else, sweat darkening the hair at his temples and gleaming on his chest. He’s staring at Dean like he might try to eat him whole.“Hi?” Dean says, and then the heat-scent hits him.





	A Little Less Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> big bangs are due in a month! so of course I did this instead of working on mine

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam says through the cracked door, “but no. No way in hell.”

“You can’t just lock me out of my own apartment,” Dean pants, shoulder braced against the door while Sam pushes from the other side. “Fucking— Sam, come on!”

“It’s _our_ apartment, and look, I’ll spot you the hotel room—”

“Fuck no,” Dean says, leaning hard into the wood and swearing as his shoes slide on the carpet. He’s still in his suit from work, his shirt and pants clinging to him where he’s managed to sweat through the fabric. It feels absolutely disgusting. “I’m not going back outside like this _,_ are you crazy?”

Sam lets out a short laugh.“You’re sure as hell not coming in here.”

“Sam, _please,”_ Dean says, not above begging. He hasn’t had a rut come on this strong in years and he’d forgotten how goddamn embarrassing it can be, hurrying down the street to knowing smirks and muffled laughter, trying to be subtle about covering his crotch while people lean away from him on the subway. He lost his jacket, his favorite tie and the only working umbrella he owns in the rush to get home, he has no idea where, and all he wants is a cold shower and a cold beer and his own fucking bed.

That and the actual fucking his body is clamoring for, obviously, some soft, sweet little thing to wrap around his knot and wring out all the heat and need and frustration building in his gut—

Behind the door, Sam makes a gagging sound. “Jesus Christ, you stink.”

“Like you’re a friggin’ daisy,” Dean grunts, pushing with all his strength. Normally Sam’s scent is just _there,_ so heavily associated with home Dean barely notices it, but it’s turning strange and sour in his nose. Dean’s lips peel back from his teeth, and his next inhale comes on a growl. _“Sam. Open the door.”_

“Are you fucking— no, you know what,” Sam snarls, and suddenly the door bangs shut so hard it hits Dean in the face, sending him sprawling backwards.

“You little motherfucker!” he yells, hand over his jaw.

“Come back when you’re not rutting out of your mind, asshole!” Sam yells back, and punctuates it by throwing the deadbolt.

“No, don’t— Sam!” Dean says desperately, scrambling to his knees so he can pound on the door. “Come on, no, I swear I wasn’t challenging you! Please! I just want to jack off in peace!”

And on that refined note, Dean hears the door to the apartment behind him swing open.

Dean briefly closes his eyes, mouths _fu-u-uck you_ to his own closed door. “I am so sorry,” he says to whoever it might be, getting to his feet, “really sorry, I know we were being loud, and,” he turns with a weak, apologetic smile ready. “I was just about to...”

Dean is aware, in a vague way, that the man who lives in 606B is an omega. They’ve ridden in the elevator together a few times and nod politely if they pass each other at the mailboxes. Dean’s had the glancing thought now and then that the guy’s cute, if a little butch for his tastes— all boxy suits and stubble, with a strong jaw and lean, wiry frame. He’s got pretty eyes, though, and smells like moss and pebble-bottomed creeks. He’s always seemed nice enough.

“Hello,” the man in 606B says. Instead of a boxy suit, he’s in low-slung sweatpants and nothing else, sweat darkening the hair at his temples and gleaming on his chest. He’s staring at Dean like he might try to eat him whole.

“Hi?” Dean says, and then the heat-scent hits him.

He manages to catch himself before he takes more than one step, but it’s hard, like standing in a raging surf and fighting against the waves. Heat and want are coming off of the guy so strongly Dean tastes more than smells him, clear-water sweetness gone syrup-thick and salty, earthy, coating his throat all the way down to his lungs and igniting there. All the directionless, itchy, annoying arousal that’s been tugging at him all day snaps into focus with a fresh burst of fever over his skin, his scalp prickling with sweat and a hard, wanting shudder rolling through him. He thinks he might make some kind of noise, but it’s hard to hear anything over his own pulse suddenly pounding in his ears and throbbing in his dick.

“Oh God,” Dean says, caught there, strangled. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was just leaving.”

“Were you?” the man says. He inhales through parted lips, drawing Dean in over the flat of his tongue, and his eyes go heavy-lidded and dark.

 _Shit_. Dean’s seen this porno, he owns this fucking porno but in real life this is a bad idea, an unbelievably bad idea. Just the thought is getting him so hot he’s trembling from it, hands in fists at his sides. “Look, Novak— it’s Novak, right? I swear, I didn’t mean to bother you, I really am—”

“It’s Castiel Novak,” the man says. “You can call me by my first name.”

“Right. Castiel. I—”

“You’re Dean. Sam’s brother.” He licks his lips, blush-pink to match the color high in his cheeks. “And, though I’m sure you believe you’re being chivalrous, I’d much prefer it if you weren’t.”

Though his voice is hoarse and he’s watching Dean with the unwavering attention of a lion in tall grass, he sounds cogent and reasonable. Too reasonable. Dean’s upstairs brain is being hijacked by his adrenal system, and he has to remember that. “That’s probably not a good idea,” he says, and Castiel’s eyes narrow.

“No?” he asks, and takes a slow step closer. They’ve got maybe three feet of space between them now, and Dean swears he can almost feel the heat Castiel must be radiating. Sweat dampens the waist of the sweatpants and something else entirely is soaking into the seat, visible even from this angle, tangible in the air. Some animal part of Dean is whispering that he could catch him, could lunge and knock him to the ground and have him right there over the threshold like some fucking PSA on predatory alphas. He wouldn’t, doesn’t want to, except that he does and so badly his muscles are cramping from the effort of stopping himself.

The weight of Castiel’s eyes says he knows exactly what Dean wants, and might even let him do it. Fuck.

“I…” Dean’s throat is so dry he can barely speak. “Listen, uh, Castiel? I can’t just—” He cuts himself off as Castiel lets out an impatient breath.

“If we’re both in need, and obviously compatible,” gaze tracking up Dean’s body like he’s already naked, “I don’t see why we can’t come to some kind of mutually satisfying agreement. I have plenty of condoms. And pizza, if you like.”

Dean blinks at him, startled out of the haze of rut for a moment. “You have... pizza?”

“I ordered several boxes,” Castiel says, and as Dean’s eyebrows climb he frowns and adds defensively, “It’s incredibly difficult to cook in this state, you get— you get distracted. And.”

That actually gets a rusty laugh out of Dean, and he looks down with a hand over his eyes because _fuck_.

“If you’re truly not interested,” Castiel says stiffly. He shifts his weight back, floorboards creaking under his heel, and Dean drops his hand.

“Well, what kind of pizza is it?” he asks, smiling a little, helpless against it.

Castiel is still frowning like he thinks Dean is mocking him, but his face clears as Dean takes two deliberate steps, letting him see he’s coming, giving him one last chance to say no. They’re close to the same height, and Dean doesn’t have to lean in far to scent him, open mouth hovering inches from the naked curve of his shoulder. Castiel takes an unsteady breath and sways into it, tilts his head to the side invitingly as his hand settles on Dean’s shirt. His palm feels incredibly warm. “I ordered— one of everything, there’s,” he says, and gasps at the first touch of Dean’s lips and tongue on his neck, the slide of Dean’s hands around his waist to his back. “ _Ah_."

That little noise is like a match on gasoline, and Dean vaguely remembers kicking the door closed behind them but the progression is muzzy from there to the floor, Castiel on his back with Dean running eager hands up from ankle to hip and nuzzling into the soft fabric tenting over Castiel’s dick, slick darkening the cotton between his thighs, breathing it in until he’s light-headed and dizzy, drowning. Castiel arches under him with a wild shudder and comes against his face like that, one hand twisted demandingly in Dean’s shirt collar, the other on the back of his head.

“On edge, baby?” Dean says, teasing, even though he’s crouched over him on hands and knees and ready to tear the sweatpants apart with his teeth. His entire body feels molten, ready.

“Castiel,” the man pants, head lolling back against the carpet. “ _Not_ baby. Oh, I need— I need—”

“I’ve got you,” Dean says, almost croons, and starts peeling the sweats down, over his wet but still mostly-hard dick. He doesn’t get them down much further because he’s kissing the hollow between Castiel’s hips, cleaning little smears of come from the hot skin with his tongue while he rubs his knuckles up between shaking thighs, against the hot clutch of his body but not inside. “Don’t have to worry about a thing, I’ve got you.”

“More,” Castiel says, and yanks at Dean’s shirt. “Dean, more. _Now._ ”

Dean’s body is on fire, but he’s caught up and held captive by the smell of Castiel, salt-wet and perfect, the scalding, silky grip around his fingers when he slips them in, first the tips, then two together when Castiel’s whole body softens and his hips tilt up in blatant welcome. The heat is unbelievable, every breath burning in his throat. Castiel is working the shirt off him, one popped button at a time, but when Dean sinks a third finger in he loses focus, head dropping back and one knee drawing up.

“I’m, I’m going to come,” he gasps, sounding surprised.

“Kinda the point,” Dean says. He’s gasping too, mouth open against Castiel’s navel.

“But you,” Castiel says dazedly, “but you— I want _you_. Condoms, on the table.”

Dean hadn’t noticed a table, hadn’t really noticed anything but Castiel under him, but when he lifts his head he sees they’ve made it about halfway into a combination living and dining room, one dark doorway leading to a kitchen, the other down a hall. There’s a four-person table on the other side of the sofa, but it might as well be on the other side of the moon.

“Get the condoms, now,” Castiel says breathlessly, pushing at his shoulders.

“In a sec,” Dean mumbles, by which he means after he’s rocked Castiel into another tight, clutching orgasm, Castiel’s fingers digging hard into Dean’s shoulder as he cries out and shakes into it, heels dragging at the carpet. His eyes are barely open and unfocused afterwards, but he sees Dean ease his fingers free and moans like it’s killing him when Dean sucks them clean. The taste, the saltwater rush of it, hits Dean’s system like a baseball bat to the back of the head and he loses a few more minutes pinning Castiel’s hips so he can lick him out, broad, greedy weeps of his tongue over every soaked inch until Castiel nearly suffocates him between clenched thighs and clawing fingers.

The condoms are on the table when Dean finally stumbles over to it, all five huge fucking boxes of them. So are two packs of water, a couple liters of juice, and enough canned soup to feed an army. On top of the soup is a bag bulging with miscellaneous fruit, and a small mountain of pizza boxes.

“You’re sure you weren’t expecting someone?” Dean asks, staring down at the very crowded tabletop. “Several someones? The zombie apocalypse?”

“It pays to be prepared,” Castiel says, trying to shake the sweatpants off one ankle. He’s a more than a little wobbly on his feet, Dean’s viscerally pleased to notice. “It’s not important right now.”

“Something else on your mind?” Dean says, though he’s so close he can taste it, just from seeing the last of Castiel’s clothes fall on the carpet.

Castiel glares at him. “Take off your pants,” he enunciates, “and get on the couch.”

Dean knots Castiel for the first time shoved onto his back and held there, slacks flung to god knows where and still wearing one sock. It’s too soon for them to really have had a rhythm going, but as Dean’s pulling him down with both hands Castiel meets him on the precipice and crashes over with him, coming with his eyes screwed shut and his voice cracked in ragged relief. Dean freezes at the height of a thrust and the rut holds him there, Castiel’s body pulling it out of him in long pulses, each one bleeding off a little more of that unnatural heat. It seems to last forever.

Dean’s still caught on the sharp tines of orgasm some endless minutes later, when Castiel tips back his head and sighs blissfully, flexing his knees as he tries to get them just a little wider. His hands have settled on Dean’s chest, spread over his skin, and Dean’s eyes flutter open when they lift away.

“That feels so much better,” Castiel murmurs, gazing down at him, and Dean feels like they might be having a moment right until Castiel looks at the coffee table next to them and reaches over to pick up— to pick up a fucking laptop.

“What,” Dean tries to say, twitching as the movement drags a weak aftershock from him. His entire body feels hypersensitive and strained, muscles trembling with exertion. “What— what are you doing?”

He bats the laptop away from his chest, because _what the fuck,_ and Castiel gives him an irritated look. “This is the first time I’ve been able to concentrate on anything in more than a twenty-four hours,” he explains, like he thinks Dean is being an idiot. “I need to get some work done.”

“Some work— we’re still _tied_ ,” Dean grinds out. “I’m still _coming.”_

“Are you?” Castiel asks, and twists experimentally.

“Fuck!" Dean yelps as it pulls at his knot, and jerks up into him.

The laptop ends up on the floor, and Castiel ends up draped over Dean, watching him; he’s tall enough that he can plant an elbow over Dean’s shoulder and brace his chin on a hand. He doesn’t look impatient anymore. If anything, he looks slightly confused, fingertips tentative as they trace the line of Dean’s jaw, his eyebrows, down his neck and along his collarbone, until Dean finally relaxes back into the couch with a long, heartfelt groan.

“Knot should be down in a couple,” he mumbles. Come is leaking out around the base of the condom, and the sensation is pushing hard at that fine line between glorious and disgusting. “Jesus. I know it’s supposed to be longer when you’ve got a partner in heat, but that was extreme.”

“It was?” Castiel asks, and squirms a little. “And… you’re done now?”

His cheeks are starting to flush again, and he’s biting his bottom lip. His body clenches, trying to keep Dean’s softening knot inside, and Dean’s next inhale is thick with renewed heat-scent. “Shit,” he says, grabbing Castiel’s hips as he tries move again. “Really?”

“You took so long that I,” Castiel complains, and Dean feels absolutely justified in sliding four fingers in right as his dick slips out, crooking them hard. Castiel’s voice breaks off with an abrupt low whine.

Having a partner in season at the same time as him is fucking intense, and by the time the sun sets and the apartment goes dark Dean absolutely understands why it comes with a doctor’s warning label. He’s never had a rut this overpowering in his life, not even in college where they all were young and stupid, played fast and loose with blockers. Fucking like this is— it always lasts longer with someone versus jerking it, everyone knows that, but it feels like he’ll die like this, pinned down and surrounded by Castiel, the insane amount of heat between them building and breaking over and over. Dean’s close to losing himself completely in it, barely hearing himself make the high hurt noises that are absolutely not whimpers and are definitely not the typical alpha growl from those fucking pornos. Castiel doesn’t try to get up or go away again, just wraps himself around Dean like a second skin and makes wordless soothing noises until Dean’s gone limp.

“Shower,” Dean croaks, a long time later. There were interludes where they’d been on the coffee table, then the floor, then the matching armchair, but they’ve made it back to the couch. Dean has his face buried in Castiel’s neck, where he already smells more like Dean than himself, and Castiel is letting Dean’s weight slowly crush him into the cushions.

“Food,” Castiel croaks back, and sounds exhausted enough that alpha instinct peels Dean off and sends him staggering into the kitchen. He can’t find the light switches and stubs his toe twice, and there’s no throw or blanket anywhere in the room. He ends up covering Castiel with his buttonless collared shirt. Dean sits on the floor next to him and feeds him juice and apple slices while one of the apocalypse pizzas reheats in the oven.

“Cold,” Castiel mutters as he slowly chews his way through a plain cheese piece, and Dean gets back on the seriously nasty couch and pulls him into his arms.

“Stop, ‘m not hungry,” he says as Castiel tries to pass him the next slice, even though he knows it’s the rut talking. Castiel, who is obviously a pushy asshole even when he’s not heat-drunk, pokes him in the cheek with it until he finally takes a bite.

They leave about half a pizza on the coffee table and lurch away down the hall. Dean forces a detour to the bathroom because he’s _sticky_ and can think of few things more disgusting than falling asleep like this, without at least rinsing off. He’s glad he thought to bring one of the condom boxes along, because Castiel’s body is less tired than the man obviously feels and they end up in the bottom of the tub, warm water raining down on Castiel’s back as he curls over Dean and moves in slow, careful pushes, Dean’s soapy hands gliding up and down his stomach and thighs.

Dean doesn’t remember getting to the bed, but wakes up on the second day to spend a couple minutes semi-hard and smiling into a pillow saturated with Castiel’s scent— his usual crisp, clean water smell, not the ocean tinging the air from where he’s still sleeping next to Dean, his weight making a dip in the mattress. They’re pressed together shoulder to shoulder, and Dean maneuvers slowly onto his side so he can give him a nudge, watch his beautiful eyes slit open and stare malevolently.

“Hey, we made it,” Dean says, grinning back. “Go team.”

Castiel squints daggers at him, then shuts his eyes again. “Ugh.”

Dean laughs and leans in to brush a kiss over the bridge of his nose, right where it’s wrinkling the most. “Want some water, champ?”

“... maybe later,” Castiel tells him, and grabs Dean’s dick.

“Heat’s not broken, then?” Dean asks, breath coming faster as Castiel gropes across the sheet to find the condoms without letting go of him.

“Is your rut?” Castiel asks in a sleep-rough voice. He pumps him once, smoothing precome down Dean’s shaft to the bulge where his knot is starting to form, and squeezes around him hard. He lets Dean buck into it and gasp a little before easing his grip.

“Signs point to no,” Dean says unsteadily, watching through half-shut eyes as Castiel rolls the condom on with more determination than skill. Sweat’s breaking out across his body again, hunger threatening to weld his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He swallows, and his throat clicks. “Well. Where do you want me, sweetheart?”

Castiel seems perfectly comfortable manhandling him into position, and Dean finds himself more than happy to be manhandled. He’s not used to ending up on his back so often, but kind of likes that too— likes to see how much Castiel wants it, and to let Castiel take it from him. They get the sheets filthy, push the whole bundle off the side of the of the bed and fall asleep again with Castiel spooned up behind Dean, a proprietary hand cupped over his crotch. It’s warm, and weirdly nice.

“Y’just want me for my knot, issat it?” Dean says muzzily, hooking an ankle around Castiel’s calf.

“It’s a good one,” Castiel mumbles back, more than half asleep, and when Dean starts laughing he bites him on the shoulder. “Shut up.”

They go on to defile most of the flat surfaces in Castiel’s apartment, the couch a foregone conclusion, the bed not faring much better. It’s less frantic now, both of them winding down from the fever-pitch throws of their cycles into the softer afterglow, slow and sweet as molasses. They’ve gone through three of the five condom boxes by the end of the four days it takes Castiel’s heat to break completely. Dean’s rut has eased by that evening.

“You’re amazing,” Dean tells him, layering soft kisses over his neck and shoulders while they move together, easy now, no rush at all at the end. After the endorphins drain out of his system, he’s pretty sure he’s going to be sore like he’s spent the last four days in boot camp, but right now nothing hurts. “So amazing. So good for me.”

“Oh,” Castiel sighs, eyes closed and cheek pressed to the bed, fingers curled around Dean’s wrist where his hand is planted for balance.

“You got one more for me?” Dean whispers in his ear, feeling the fine tremors running through him, the way his back is starting to bow. “Gonna come again, Cas?”

“Dean,” Castiel moans, low and soft, and comes shivering, the loose clutch of his body around Dean perfect, absolutely perfect. Dean follows him, open and emptied and satisfied in a way he didn’t know existed before that moment.

Dean dozes in the quiet aftermath and wakes up alone, disconcerting when they haven’t broken skin contact since Dean walked in. He finds Castiel in the living and dining room, lights on, supplies mostly tidied away and the true wreck of the furniture on full display. He’s wearing a pair of boxers and a plain tee shirt. Dean is suddenly aware of his nakedness, and stops himself before he can grab his wrist in an awkward fig leaf.

Dean crosses to Castiel and the man lets him close, but there’s a subtle tension in his limbs that keeps Dean from closing the gap completely. If he wasn’t so attuned to him, he might not have noticed; Castiel gives him a sidelong glance under his lashes, like he’s surprised Dean noticed as well.

“Clean up?” Dean says lightly, trying to gauge his mood. “Can I help?”

Castiel looks away, at the table and the remaining miscellanea on it. “Could you take out some of the garbage?” he says. “I’ve started a few bags. I’ll lend you something to wear.”

It turns out to be a pair of sweatpants, the same grey cotton weave as the first, like he’d bought them in a three-pack at Sam’s Club or something. They smell like detergent, which is probably a blessing, because when Dean gets back from throwing away all their leftover pizza Castiel has what’s left of his suit carefully folded up, Dean’s leather wingtips unscathed at the bottom of the pile.

“You probably want to get back to your apartment,” Castiel says, holding it up. “It’s late, and Monday is tomorrow.”

“Oh. Right,” Dean says.

He takes the pile. What else can he do?

“And, Dean. Thank you for—” Castiel starts to say, and Dean holds up a hand to stop him.

“Hey, you don’t have to thank me,” he says, trying to smile. “It was my— I mean.  It was great.”

* * *

Sam’s left him a note on the kitchen table that just reads FUCK YOU in big block letters, and dishes in the sink that are at least a few days old. It makes Dean wince, and be glad that the rest of their neighbors are mostly betas; he’s not much of an exhibitionist, and doubts Castiel is either.

Somehow, Dean gets up the next morning and goes to work. He might as well have taken the day, because he’s tired and spacey and kind of wants to find an icepack for his knot— forget sore muscles, he’s practically rubbed himself raw. It makes sitting down tricky and also makes him an easy  target for awful, raunchy jokes from the other alphas at his office, but he’s so out of it he barely notices. He keeps thinking about Castiel, wondering if he’s at work too, if he’s tired and hurting. He seems like the kind of guy who’d try to power through anything short of a broken limb. Dean pulls up pages and pages about heat recovery on his phone and has to lock it in his desk drawer before he drives himself nuts. Castiel had made it very clear he’d be handling it himself, and Dean has no claim on him.

A week later, Dean hasn’t seen Castiel once. It isn’t strange, because it’s exactly how it used to be, but he’s never been looking so hard, sniffing at common spaces and entryways like a goddamn dog. He finds himself lingering in front of Castiel’s door, trying to hear something or catch a fresher scent, some other sign of life. Intellectually, he knows it’s bonding hormones, even with the condoms. It’s not like they’d used dental dams, and he still hasn’t thrown away his ruined shirt (though he has managed to stop himself from sleeping with it, most of the time). There was a sock missing from the clothing pile Castiel had folded for him, and Dean fantasizes for too many days about going across the hall and asking if Castiel has seen it, if maybe Dean could come in and look.

To be completely honest, he feels a little embarrassed about it. How bad he fell for it. Not that Castiel was trying to pull something— on the contrary, he’d been one of the most forthright, honest partners Dean had ever had. But Dean barely knows him and he’d— he’d immediately slipped from treating him like a casual encounter to a real lover, one he’d come home to every day and sleep beside every night. Someone he was allowed to care for. It wasn’t a conscious decision, and looking back, Dean can’t even pinpoint when it happened. Castiel just… didn’t feel like a strings-free hookup, there and gone again.

Two weeks later, and Dean’s stopped feeling so damn cold all the time. He’s getting his focus back, and his moods are evening out. Castiel has stopped popping into his head on every third thought, at the slightest provocation— a pizza parlor, photos of the ocean, a very specific shade of blue. Dean’s started to notice omegas again, girls in high skirts and guys in tight jeans. He’s not looking for one, doesn’t think that will happen for a long time yet, but at least the flavor’s back in the air.

Of course, the day he notices is the day he meets Castiel coming into their apartment building, Leave-It-to-Beaver briefcase in hand and dumpy trenchcoat hanging open over another boxy suit. Dean smells him before he sees him, the shady banks of a clear, icy stream, and then his reflection paces up to the shiny elevator doors. Dean closes his eyes and just breathes for a second.

Castiel steps up next to him. Dean glances over, to see him looking away.

“Hey,” he tries.

Castiel’s eyes flick back to his, and away again. “Hello, Dean,” he says to the elevator.

The elevator arrives. They get in. Castiel hits the button for their floor, and stands on the other side the small box across from Dean. He’s looking at the wall as the elevator starts clanking upwards, no sign he wants to talk.

Dean wants to respect that, the unspoken request there to keep a clean break, but. But. There are circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping. His shoulders are slumped. There’s a tag from the dry cleaner around the corner sticking up from the back of his shirt.

He’s absolutely eye-fucking Dean in their reflections in the metal doors.

“Listen, Cas— are you seeing anyone right now?” Dean says abruptly. “Because I. I’m not.”

Castiel turns his head to stare directly at him, like he can’t believe anyone could be quite this stupid. “You should move in with me,” he says, and two weeks’ worth of misery slides off Dean’s shoulders.

“I should?” Dean says, smile breaking slow across his face. “You think?”

Castiel steps up into his space at the same time Dean moves in too. They clash messily in the middle, Castiel’s hands cupping his face as he tries to kiss Dean deaf, dumb and mute, Dean’s hands running down to Castiel’s hips and under his thighs. He hauls him up, and Castiel’s legs go around his waist and stay there as Dean presses him back against the wall.

They almost miss their floor, and then they almost fall out of the elevator when the doors open. Dean hikes Castiel higher in his arms, ignoring Castiel’s noise of protest, and it’s not that far until he can slam him up against his own apartment door.

“Keys are in— my coat,” he says, in between frantic kisses.

“I got it,” Dean says, except he doesn’t really and it takes him three pockets to find them. Then he almost drops both them and Castiel when the man shifts from kissing to sucking at the skin under his jaw, down his neck.

Everything inside Castiel’s apartment still smells like him, like them, and it’s at once the most soothing and inflammatory thing he’s ever smelled. Dean’s grinning when he dumps Castiel on the bed still fully dressed, even his ugly shoes and uglier trenchcoat. Castiel makes a face at the treatment, but a smile is hiding in the twitch of his lips as he looks up at Dean, and he holds out his arms in welcome.

“After this, I swear, we’ll do this right,” Dean says, pushing a knee between his thighs, leaning down so he can kiss that smile right off his mouth while Castiel draws him in, draws him down. “I’m going to wine and dine, date the everloving fuck out of you. Right after this.”

“Right after this,” Castiel agrees, Dean’s body sinking into his like they’ll never be separate again. “But first—”

“But first,” Dean says. “I hope you’ve still got a couple sick days saved up.”


End file.
